Sunday hunting in Maine is illegal because most residents believe they should have one day a week during November to roam freely in the woods without fear of being mistaken for a big buck.
One freezing and foggy Sunday afternoon during hunting season, I received a call from a gentleman I knew as Maynard.
Maynard lived in Troy in an area surrounded by farmland, old fields, and woods. It was in prime deer country and I knew it well. I’d met Maynard in the past, and I couldn’t say we’d had the friendliest of relations. I sensed that he wasn’t the biggest supporter of the Fish and Game Department, or the wardens who enforced the laws, including me.
So I was taken aback when I received the call from Maynard, asking, “How would you like to apprehend a Sunday hunter?”
Excited at the prospect of catching a violator and perhaps even gaining a little confidence in Maynard, I listened carefully to his complaint.
“Out in the far corner of my back field I just saw a hunter perched way up in a tree, waiting for a deer to come out,” he said.
Chuckling, he added, “The gawd-damned fool isn’t bright enough to discard his blaze-orange hunting cap. If anyone ever deserved to get caught, he does.”
It was getting to be late in the afternoon. I had to hurry if I was going to make an official visit with this hoodlum up in a tree.
I hid my cruiser quite some distance away and hiked up an old woods road leading to the field. I could see the orange hunting cap in the distance, exactly where Maynard had said it would be.
I reached for my trusty binoculars, but I’d forgotten them. Damn it! All I could see was the bright orange hat bobbing up and down in the tree.
I had to get closer, so I crept along using the dense brush to conceal my presence. Occasionally, I stepped out to the edge of the field to make sure my prey was still in the tree.
At least I had sense enough to bring my flashlight, for by now it was beginning to get quite dusky. The icy mist had turned into a freezing rain, and I was shivering as I moved closer to the tree.
I wondered if this person would surrender easily, or if I’d end up in a foot chase or, even worse, with a fight on my hands. Sometimes these poachers were hell-bent on getting away from the law.
With darkness now settling over the area, what had started out as a crime of Sunday hunting had now elevated to the more serious offense of night-hunting.
I couldn’t help thinking that maybe old Maynard wasn’t as bad as I had figured him out to be. Maybe I’d misjudged the old boy right from the start.
I finally had worked my way as close to the tree and the hunter as I was going to get without tipping my hand. I peeked out at the tree one last time. The hat was still high in the branches. I swear I could see the fellow’s body and most of his face, but I couldn’t make out who it was in the darkness.
It was time to surprise this Sabbath Day criminal. I wanted to catch him way up in the air and not on the ground where he could run off.
Taking a couple of deep breaths, I shot out of the woods with my flashlight aimed directly at the spot where this nimrod was perched. I fully expected all hell to break loose, but instead the orange cap was still as I ran toward it, screaming at the top of my lungs for him to come to hell down out of that tree.
Much to my surprise, there was no hunter.
Instead, I found a blaze-orange hunting cap strategically nailed to a small tree limb.
I’d been had, big time!
I stomped around underneath that tree for the next few minutes, cursing Maynard like I’d never cursed anybody before. He had purposely lured me out of the comfort of my home and into this little booby trap.
I set out to call him up and say, “Hey, Maynard, thanks for all your help this afternoon. I never did make it up to the tree you talked about, but instead I apprehended two of your neighbors along the way. I just wanted to warn you they aren’t too happy with you,” and then simply hang up. But I thought better of it.
I could just picture the old coot, curled up on his couch watching a football game and snickering to himself, thinking of my cold and frosty arse out in the woods nearby.
Now that was a real “hat trick.”